


serotonin is something unacceptable

by deducery



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Canonical Character Death, Coffee Shops, Developing Relationship, M/M, Pre-Slash, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1325731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deducery/pseuds/deducery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a tantalising aspect to the things that are unreachable, like the clouds or the moon or the grasp of someone else's fingers; and desire is often birthed from tragedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. MBBS

“Thanks for this,” Molly says, sitting across from Sherlock in the Caffè Nero establishment of Westfield Stratford City. It is an unusually brisk day for a morning in mid-September at a high of about eleven degrees Celsius. The sky is dark and grey as ever, the wind outdoors whispering warnings of oncoming precipitation. Molly’s eyes trail down to her hot chocolate milano with the barest of smiles. “Taking me out.”

            “It’s fine.” Sherlock takes a sip of his coffee. Black, two sugars. He glances over at another table and squints as if he’s making out the rough edges of a married couple, of a husband’s secret affair. Their four-year-old son takes a slice of bread and stuffs it into his mouth, crumbs spilling over his shirt. He looks back to Molly.

            “I mean… the atmosphere and all, back home—it was… stuffy. You know how it is.” Molly sips her drink gingerly before licking the whipped cream from her upper lip and wiping her mouth. Sherlock pretends not to pay attention to her, turning his head and scanning through the crowd shuffling through to get to their restaurants and clothing outlets. Busy day. There is a middle-aged man sitting on one of the couches in Nero who carries himself like _he_ did, carefree and at ease. Sherlock continues to look at the man in favour of Molly.

            “It’s fine,” he says.

            Molly nods, setting her glass down in front of her and leaning on her elbows against the table. “Is it like that at your place? Everyone shoving it down your throat? I mean, I know how close your parents were to him, so…”

            “Shoving what down my throat?”

            “Grief. Funeral plans. That kind of thing.”

            Sherlock thinks about how they’re going to preserve the corpse of Molly’s father. He thinks about how typical embalming fluid contains a mixture of formaldehyde, glutaraldehyde, ethanol, wetting agents, humectants and countless other solvents. He thinks about how pointless it is, the issue of the undertaker finding you fuckable after death. “Yes,” he says, and takes another sip of his coffee, the fluid burning his tongue, his oesophagus.

            “Mm,” Molly mutters, and returns to her drink.

            He’s got no right to be so sad, really, when it is not his father dead of an abnormal increase of lymphocytes in the tissues of his body, but Molly’s has been his odd second family since primary school and he feels like he has to tear a part of himself away and let it go. Mr. Hooper died on the twelfth of September during Sherlock’s first real week of school for the academic year, and the news came to him as he was heading down Dirleton Road back to his house—his ringtone sounded in his pocket and he fished out his phone. His mum was ringing him up, and she’d already left two voice messages that Sherlock ignored, answering the call. And it was the tone of his mother’s voice that struck him—the sound of someone who is drowning, who is devastated and world-weary and yet not surprised, as if they knew this would happen all along. Roughly forty percent of all adults diagnosed with leukaemia live for at least five years after treatment, but permanent remission is a selfish, impossible hope. Sherlock had never been too optimistic regarding the survival of Molly’s father, but he should have known better than to let himself believe everything would be alright.

            Sherlock returns to the present and makes himself ignore the carefree man on the couch. He turns back to Molly, who is watching the man—he gets up and leaves, strolling out of the café as if nothing in the world could ever bother him. Molly’s eyes are watering, her face contorting. Sherlock wonders spitefully how crying at Mr. Hooper’s bedside ever helped to cure him. He chases the thought out of his mind and doesn’t let himself break.

            “He was always like that, Dad was,” Molly tells Sherlock, her voice cracking, her brown eyes drawn away from the couch and to the fingers of her left hand fiddling with the plait settled upon her left shoulder. “Cheerful. Right up until he died. You know?” She’s smiling through it all under the pretence that she is okay, that either of them is okay. “But he looked... he looked sad. When he thought no one could see him.”

            Sherlock swallows down a knot in his throat and breathes. He is going to throw up all of his emotions if he isn't careful, and so he doesn’t say anything, but nods once in assent. Two young men—very young as it happens; Sherlock notes they can’t have entered university more than two years ago—enter the café, chatting about boring, stupid things like rugby and whether they should have one or two shots of espresso whilst staring down at their phones. But the short one, the one with sandy blond hair, looks toward him, catching his gaze; Sherlock assumes he must look very miserable because the blond one gets his friend to take his order for him with a promise to pay the friend back and heads over.

            The blond boy only notices Molly when he’s reached their table, the girl staring down at her lap and trying to contain herself. “Jesus,” he mutters to himself. “Are you two alright?” he breathes, looking about the two with the obvious knowledge that something terrible has happened. “I mean, sorry, I, uh—just wanted to know if everything was okay. I know it’s not my business or anything.”

            Sherlock pores over the blond boy, studying him for knowledge, for answers. He makes an educated guess about which university he attends and raises a brow. “We’re fine. BSc, MBBS or BDS?”

            The blond boy’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “What?”

            “Global Health, Medicine or Dentistry?” Sherlock asks as if the blond boy is astonishingly stupid.

            “How did you…?” The blond boy opens and closes his mouth several times, looking for words to aid him in his plight. “That’s fantastic. How did you know I was going to Barts?”

            Sherlock blinks before adjusting the collar of his checked shirt. “Knew you and your friend were uni students from the moment you walked in—young and conscious of trends in dress but more physically mature than a student just going into year eleven. You look almost as if you’ve finished uni already, but your phone’s second-hand, gifted to you by a relative who was, in turn, given the trinket by his wife Clara, as I see from the engravings; so you clearly can’t have a very high-paying job, as that demands time which you soon won’t have, and any funds you've collected are likely to pay for your education. Moreover, neither of you could have left high school more than two years ago, as this is the fourteenth of September and the first teaching semester at Queen Mary was due to start for all students above the second year of their programmes on, hmm—the third, I believe. Judging from your appearances, I’d guess you two aren’t particularly stressed over any work you’re due to hand in. You’ve got a bit of free time left, so you’re spending it as wisely as you deem possible.” Sherlock’s lips quirk upward in a sort of smirk. “Barts and the London was more of an intuitive guess. You have the traits of an honest physician in your own roundabout way. What was your name?”

            The blond boy swallows, his throat seeming to have gone dry. Sherlock watches his Adam’s apple. “I’m John Watson. MBBS, by the way. You?”

            “The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock replies, the blond boy seeming to take shape in front of him, to become a fleshed-out human being instead of a kind-natured stranger. “This is my friend Molly Hooper,” he adds, gesturing to Molly, who is no longer crying but instead staring at Sherlock as if he has done something horribly inappropriate and yet amazing in the unravelling of a complete _inconnu._

            “Sherlock!” Molly interjects before glancing briefly up at their visitor, her cheeks going pink. “Oh, um, hello—John, was it? You can take a seat if you’d like.” She gestures toward the empty spot beside Sherlock and gives him a friendly look. John does just so, pulling out the empty chair and sitting down. His friend over by the other side of the café, who has received their orders at perhaps the perfect time, brings over their cups—he hands John an espresso macchiato and plods down beside Molly, taking a large gulp of his roasted chestnut latte.

            “That’s Mike,” John informs them, pointing to the man sitting next to Molly enthralled by his drink. “Mike, these are Molly and Sherlock.”

            Mike finally sets his cup down on the table and eyes Sherlock and Molly with decided interest. He seems to exude an amiable aura, and he greets the both of them with an enthusiastic wave. “Hullo! Mike Stamford,” he says, his tone warm and reassuring. He then points to either of them with opposite hands. “Now, you’re Sherlock,” he inquires, gesturing with the hand pointing across the table, “and you’re Molly?” He motions to the girl sitting beside him and she nods curtly.

            “Impressive,” retorts Sherlock dryly, “that you managed to get that right.”

            Mike flat-out guffaws, unfazed. “Thanks, mate! God, you’re funny. Ah—now, hang on a second,” he mutters to himself. “Are you two…?”

            “What? No. God, no,” Molly answers incredulously.

            Sherlock hums in affirmation. “Girlfriends not really my area,” he mentions, tapping his feet on the floor idly. At this John shoots him a curious look which Mike emulates.

            “So have you got a boyfriend then?” John ventures to ask, lacing his fingers together.

            “No. You?”

            “Yeah, no…” John licks his lips absently and looks off to the side. Sherlock coughs. They seem to have created an awkward, palpable tension which neither of them can break until they notice Molly giggling into her hand and Mike grinning from ear to ear.

            “God, get a fucking _room,_ ” Mike drawls albeit teasingly.

            “Watch it, Stamford,” John chides, clearing his throat. “Mike, I meant to tell you that this bloke here,” he explains, pointing to Sherlock, “managed to get that we’re both in our second year at Barts without me telling him anything. It’s amazing. He’s a genius.”

            He sounds effectively awestruck, and Sherlock flashes him an odd smile. “I wouldn’t call it amazing,” he confesses almost bashfully, running a hand through his corvine locks though he glows with the praise. “Simple process of deduction.”

            Mike snorts. “ _Creepy,_ ” he says, taking another sip of his latte; Sherlock notes he can take on an impressive amount at one time considering the drinks at Nero border on scalding. “I suppose you fancy yourself a fortune-teller or something. One of those people who say they can figure out your entire life story from the palm of your hand. You sure he didn’t research us when he saw us come in?”

            “Fortune-teller?” Sherlock interjects just as John is about to speak. “Fortune-telling is for cheesecakes. Mine is an exact science.”

            John breaks out into high-pitched laughter at Sherlock’s comment, taking a few seconds of erratic breathing to calm himself down. Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat for some reason. “Jesus, Mike, no. He didn’t,” John says, “not at all. It was brilliant. I just—I, um…” John falters for a moment and Sherlock realises he is avoiding the mention of the real reason he came over in the first place—the spilt tears and steely gazes borne by the hurting. “He noticed us passing by and he asked me whether I was taking Global Health, Medicine or Dentistry. Just like that.”

            “That’s incredible!” Mike takes one final swig of his latte and sets his empty cup in front of him. “You would probably be good with the police, you know. Some sort of detective inspector sniffing out clues like a bloodhound.”

            “I’ve considered it,” Sherlock replies, leaning on his elbows against the table, “but I prefer not to tie myself up with London’s inept police force. I don’t want an official post. I could be a consultant of sorts.”

            “But the police don’t consult amateurs,” Mike says.

            “Amateurs? You can’t be serious,” John argues. “Sherlock explained to me how he figured me out right down to my mobile. The only thing is, though…” he drawls, trailing off into nothing as he looks away almost wistfully at the crowd.

            “What?” Sherlock asks, tone urgent, as if not knowing will kill him.

            “Harry is my sister. It’s short for Harriet.”

            Molly bursts out into genuine laughter and Sherlock grumbles an expletive, a quiet but thunderous sound just loud enough that his immediate company can hear him, as he rubs his temples. “There’s always something.”

 

            The group chats for hours about a myriad of topics—Douglas Adams, _EastEnders_ (which John has an odd affinity for), Mike’s most recently watched horror film ( _The Hunger,_ 1983), what they’ve done with their lives and whether they have any definite plans for the future, whether they are being led on a leash to somewhere dark and cold and unfamiliar.  Mike and John learn that Molly and Sherlock will be sitting their GCSE's and A-levels respectively. Somewhere it slips that Molly’s father is dead, and they talk about loss, and Mike pats Molly on the back, John squeezing her hand, when it comes to be too much.

            Sherlock tries very hard not to feel. He can’t afford to.

            It’s about three o’clock in the afternoon when Molly notes she and Sherlock have got to get to Stratford International so they can catch the bus, and so the four exchange phone numbers and Skype usernames—Molly’s phone plan doesn’t include free texting, and they agree it would not be considerate to have her phone bill run rampant through millions of text messages. As they’re exchanging thanks and goodbyes and _let’s do this again sometime!_ John takes notice of the cup of lukewarm black coffee sitting forgotten at their table. He takes it and hands it to Sherlock.

            “This is, uh—this is yours, right?” John asks, exhaling through his nostrils.

            Sherlock hesitates before taking the drink in hand, breathing a quiet and oddly formal ‘yes, thank you’; he and John eye each other for a few moments, frozen, it seems, until Mike gives an adjourning clap and they’re shocked back to reality. Molly nudges Sherlock’s arm, loudly whispering at him about how it’s now five minutes after three, and the two turn their backs to their friends.

            “See you later!” Molly shouts back at them with a wave.

            “Yeah,” John says, waving as he watches these two broken people depart from the café, leaving him and Mike to their own affairs. “See you later.”

            On the bus to Penny Brookes Street, sitting by Molly with his heart in his stomach, he lets his thoughts wander back to the blond boy. He doesn't dare think about the carefree man on the couch.

 


	2. Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is working. He is interrupted.

 

* * *

**Today**  17 September, 2013

* * *

 

[10:18:46 PM] Mike Stamford: so I figured since no one was talking i would start the convo! how are we all?

            The grating sound of the Skype chat startles Sherlock into switching tabs—he is sat at his computer desk in his bedroom working on his laptop, all stony eyes and broken concentration. His eulogy, his damned  _.docx_  waiting to be ravished with words that he knows everyone will want him to say, has got nowhere in the past hour he has been working on it. Sherlock allows himself the liberty of actually following the IM conversation, just skimming over the messages that pop up before him; and so appear Molly and Mike, babbling to one another as if they’ve got nothing better to do.

[10:18:52 PM] Molly Hooper: Uh, I’m not sure

[10:19:00 PM] Molly Hooper:  Unprepared ._.;

[10:19:04 PM] Molly Hooper: You?

            The funeral is on the twentieth and he’s got nothing. Absolutely nothing. It appears he’s not alone in that regard, he figures from what he reads on-screen. Molly’s foot-in-mouth syndrome is a little less hateful than his, though; it can be forgiven, as it’s her that should be shaken. He has no reason to rattle his brain for words and not find them pouring out his ears, his fingers—he’s brilliant, a genius of his time, always the child prodigy. Words come easily to him. God knows he never shuts up.

            He sets his status to  _busy_  to concentrate. It’s a blazing  _DO NOT ENTER_ , and he finds it suits him, although in no instance has anyone actually regarded it.

            His father calls upstairs to him in regards to something about food. He doesn’t answer. Digestion slows him down, a leaden weight at the bottom of his stomach pulling him down into the water. Disrupts ideal blood flow. The food will come anyway, though; his parents are devilishly persistent, and so he will bide his time while he can.

[10:19:15 PM] Mike Stamford: pretty good, school’s not till next week so i haven’t got john bitching next to me yet. I’m free as a bird till the 23rd

[10:19:20 PM] John H Watson: Oi watch it, Stamford!

[10:19:29 PM] Mike Stamford: come on man I’m kidding, you know I do love you ;)

[10:19:34 PM] John H Watson: Of course.

[10:19:45 PM] John H Watson: Wait, Molly, unprepared for what?

[10:19:55 PM] Molly Hooper: Dad’s funeral is in a few days

[10:20:03 PM] Molly Hooper: I’ve got almost nothing planned for a eulogy

            New message. Separate conversation. Sherlock’s head lilts to the side.

[10:20:13 PM] John H Watson: You there?

            He disregards it and switches to his Word tab. His father shouts up to him again. This isn’t working. He needs something. He needs—

[10:20:16 PM] Mike Stamford: is it proper for friends to help? can we do that?

            Sherlock slumps in his chair, elbows coming down against the desk, and shifts, pressing down against his temples. The screen taunts him. There is a single word on it:

_I_

            He stands and brings his laptop over to his bed, leaving behind the pile of untouched homework suited to an upper-sixth at the foot of his desk. He feels like something is missing and will never really be got back.  _I have known Mr. Braden Hooper_ , he types,  _sinc sinec since_  since what? Sherlock closes his eyes; lies back. It’s all there but it doesn’t flow, and he needs to wring letters from himself to continue. His Skype notifies him every time a message is sent, a dull knocking against his brain, almost. He ignores it.

             _I have known Mr. Braden Hooper since birth_

            The smell of red curry attacks his nostrils—his mother has entered his room  _without permission_ , has set a bowl of dinner on his desk across the room  _without permission_ , and is pushing at the screen of his laptop  _without permission._  Sherlock tears his fingers away from the keys before they’re caught under  _without permission._ “Sherlock,” she says, tone reprimanding.

            “Mum,” he replies with undue snark. When the hell did she get home from her classes? He glances at the clock hanging on the wall above his wardrobe; it is ten at night. But then, why’s he being made to eat at ten at night?

            She hesitates but keeps firm. “You can’t skip dinner again. It isn’t healthy.”

            “Slows me down—”

            “I won’t be hearing that!” His mother puts her foot down figuratively and literally, her face reddening. Sherlock thinks he can see her eyes watering. He opens his laptop back up but she keeps talking, talking  _at_  him as if he is expected to listen. He can’t. He’s busy.

            “I’m busy writing a eulogy, Mother, so if you would kindly get out of my room I would be forever indebted to you,” he grumbles, biting on his lip; and he knows she hates it when he calls her Mother and he doesn’t care he doesn’t care  _focus on the screen._

[10:20:23 PM] Molly Hooper: Idk, I mean

[10:20:30 PM] Molly Hooper: I think it would be better kept personal but

[10:20:33 PM] John H Watson: Yeah.

[10:20:38 PM] Molly Hooper: You can if you like

[10:20:55 PM] Mike Stamford: yeah I suppose we cant really put words in your mouth where a eulogy is concerned 

            The wave of Skype notifications rages on. Sherlock, smouldering with frustration, mutes his computer and snaps it shut. His mother’s gaze softens.

            “Oh, dear—no matter if—you just can’t…” she mutters, trailing off into nothing as she rethinks her words. Nothing _, nothing. L’appel du néant, hein?_   “Sweetie, I know that this is… important to you. I know. It’s important to all of us.” Scratching, rasping noise as she clears her throat. “But you can’t be skipping meals just because you believe it’ll help you think more clearly, alright? Please.”

            “It  _does_  help me think more clearly.”

            “It’s  _dangerous._  Please don’t take it too far, Sherlock.”

            “Yes, yes. Get out, please,” he replies bitterly, dismissing her with a chauvinistic wave of his hand.

           His mother opens her mouth to say something and then swallows it down, pain in her face, in her mannerisms. Teeth clench; fists clench. She’s half out the door when she tells him, “You’d better eat what I’ve given you, young man, or I shall be very cross.”

            Sherlock opens his laptop back up and signs out of Skype. He tends to his eulogy, and revises and deletes and pastes. The curry remains untouched. Finally he wills himself to go limp, the computer still in his arms, at about one-thirty in the morning:

             _I have had the pleasure of knowing Mr. Braden Hooper since birth. The Hooper family and my own are well-acquainted, as I’m sure you all know. He was an additional father figure in my life when I needed him, and an actual father in Molly’s and her siblings’ lives. But I’ll not get into that._

_Now, the issue of death. It’s extremely common, as you presumably know also. There was nothing special hidden in the circumstances of Mr. Hooper’s death; I, myself, am not one to mourn, as it takes away from the cold hard logic and reasoning which I value above all things. Really, there are much better and less appallingly stupid ways to spend one’s time. Embalmment? Why? What’s the point?_

_I think the general family of Mr. Hooper would agree it is pointless to spend thousands of dollars on ‘honouring him’ and ‘saying goodbye’ when it’s proven fact that approximately 105 people die every minute. The funeral funding could have instead been spent on something useful, and ye_

_and yet_

_do not present this. you will hurt feelings_

Ah, well. It happens. Hearts are broken. Caring does not help anybody.

 

* * *

  **Yesterday**  17 September, 2013

* * *

 

[10:24:14 PM] John H Watson: Where’s Sherlock? I’ve messaged him but he isn’t responding.

[10:24:25 PM] Molly Hooper: He’s probably off writing his

[10:24:38 PM] Molly Hooper: When he gets back he’ll probably be upset with me for saying this

[10:24:46 PM] Molly Hooper: But he was quite close to my dad

[10:25:03 PM] Molly Hooper: And I know he wants to do a good job, honour him sort of

[10:25:24 PM] John H Watson: Yeah. We went out for coffee again today. He seemed stressed, or as stressed as he allows himself to be.

[10:25:27 PM] Mike Stamford: coffee???

[10:25:33 PM] John H Watson: Yes, coffee!

[10:25:54 PM] Mike Stamford: am I supposed to believe this was just coffee and nothing else??

[10:25:57 PM] John H Watson: Yes you are!!

[10:26:13 PM] Mike Stamford: you 2 really hit it off first time we met, i’m expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week ;) ;) ;)

[10:26:18 PM] John H Watson: Fuck you Mike!

[10:26:21 PM] Molly Hooper: >u>

[10:26:30 PM] Mike Stamford: rude. Buy me dinner first

[10:26:36 PM] John H Watson: In case you forgot we’re talking about preparing for a funeral.

[10:26:42 PM] Molly Hooper: Oh its alright!

[10:26:50 PM] Molly Hooper: I needed a break from everything for a bit

[10:30:12 PM] John H Watson: Yeah.

[10:30:32 PM] John H Watson: You two both need a break.

[10:30:40 PM] John H Watson: Should we meet after the funeral?

[10:30:47 PM] Molly Hooper: Sure! Id even suggest you come to the service but it’s a relatives and close friends only thing

[10:30:55 PM] Mike Stamford: gotcha

[10:31:01 PM] Mike Stamford: so when do we meet up then?

[10:31:15 PM] Molly Hooper: The funeral is on the 20th

[10:31:21 PM] Molly Hooper: I’m free the 21st

[10:31:27 PM] John H Watson: That could work.

[10:31:33 PM] Mike Stamford: sounds good

[10:31:40 PM] Molly Hooper: Ok! I’ll ask sherlock when I see him next

[10:31:45 PM] Molly Hooper: Talk to you later

[10:31:48] Mike Stamford: yeah (waves)

[10:31:54] John H Watson: Bye, Molly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually a much different chapter from what I pictured it to be. Sorry it's so short compared to the first; things happened and I was obstructed. To tell you the truth, I have no idea where I'm going with this -- I have the plot laid out and everything and I know what I want to write, but it's hard not to make shit up as I go along. My interest in Sherlock is wavering, too, to be frank, so there's really no telling what I'll do??

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of a tale that I had originally planned to weave together for NaNoWriMo but couldn't wait to start. Brit-picked to the best of my own ability -- I promise you eons' worth of research went into this project. Not beta'd, however. Sorry! I take full credit for any and all mistakes.
> 
> The first semester of the 2013-2014 school year at Queen Mary University of London didn't really start on the third of September -- it actually started on the sixteenth! The more you know.
> 
> Rating could possibly go up as time goes on.


End file.
